


Flexible, in more ways than one

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Masquerading as a Sex Droid, Other, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: Nurse protocols dictate that sometimes a lie can be more comforting than the truth.
Relationships: Din Djarin/IG-11
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Flexible, in more ways than one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



**NEVARRO**

The sun is setting. Soon, it will be dark; the _Razor Crest_ will need to be gone before then. Nevarro’s volcanic winds are more easily navigated by day.

The child gurgles from his place in the Mandalorian’s arms; IG-11 strokes one of his ears. “You must be hungry after your ordeal. I will prepare broth, and then there will be a bedtime story. I’ll even let you choose which one.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts. “You want to come with us? We’re leaving Nevarro.”

“Affirmative,” IG-11 says. “In accordance with my primary function. You understand this.” It scans its data banks at speeds beyond organic comprehension; sifts through memory files, searching, locating, accessing. From an audio emitter mounted inside its cranial plating, it plays the recording.

“ _By Creed, it is in your care_.” The Armourer’s tinny voice prompts a startled motion from the Mandalorian. There is pain in his body language. This is regrettable, but could not be avoided.

“I fail to identify a difference between Creed and primary function,” IG-11 states. “But I encourage you to supply a correction if my calculations are wrong. I was reprogrammed. I have much to learn.”

“No,” the Mandalorian says. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then I may accompany you and the child?”

“I can’t do much to stop you.”

This is not factual; between the beskar and his impeccable aim, the Mandalorian is more than capable of putting a halt to any droid he comes across. He has in fact already done so where IG-11 is concerned. But that was another life.

“Excellent,” IG-11 says, retrieving the child from the Mandalorian’s less than ideal grip. He will have to be taught better; the child must be protected. “If you ready the ship to leave, I will calm the child and prepare a nourishing broth. We will then embark upon the journey to return it to its own kind.”

“This is the way,” the Mandalorian says with a sigh. There is no irritation in his voice. There is more than an insignificant amount of relief. His earlier sadness disappeared when IG-11’s self-destruction proved unnecessary. “Just try not to attract attention. I’ve seen too many people die recently; I don’t want the kid to be next. If we can do this carefully, we will.”

“I have the utmost faith in our combined abilities.”

In IG-11’s arms, the child looks between them both and coos.

**BYSS**

Several hundred small, red eyes watch them from the shadows. This is concerning; IG-11 and the Mandalorian could no doubt fight their way out of a famished rodent mob, but this is not a suitable situation to place a child in. Unfortunately, the area is so unsavoury that they did not dare leave the child alone on the _Razor Crest_. The Mandalorian is also a target of significant value, and it would be unwise for him to approach a crime lord without protection. Therefore, they must go together.

IG-11 runs a silent diagnostic on its blasters.

“We’d better hope the bouncers don’t open fire on sight,” the Mandalorian says as they approach the location of his contact. “It's not unusual for me to go and speak to Gor Koresh, but bringing a hunter droid along looks like a threat.”

“As I have said before: I am no longer a hunter.”

“You still move like one.”

This is accurate, IG-11 concedes. There are limits to the range of motion its chassis will allow. The manufacturers designed this body with intimidation in mind. This might be resolved through a transplant of its central processing unit into another shell, but there has never been a need; neither the child nor the Mandalorian are afraid of it. Theirs are the only relevant opinions.

“There is no need for concern,” it says. “I have been reprogrammed. We will tell them that I am something other than a hunter, and this will be the truth.”

“Not a nurse droid. I’m hoping to minimise how much attention the kid draws.”

“Agreed. And now I believe the lookout has spotted us. I will put on a friendly face. I suggest you do the same.”

The Mandalorian’s head turns. Dull streetlight gleams on his visor. He doesn’t say anything; his body language suggests incredulity.

“That was a joke,” IG-11 tells him. “Neither of us is capable of showing a friendly face. That makes the suggestion humorous.” It passes the child, swaddled in a burlap sack, to the Mandalorian, noting that he adjusts his grip to support the fragile neck, and therefore has been paying attention to IG-11’s lessons. This is pleasing.

Less pleasing is the Twi’lek guard who exhibits hostility from the doorway they wish to enter. Violence in this place would not be ideal. There are scavenger predators lurking beyond the streetlights, red eyes and malnourished bodies showing up clearly to IG-11’s optical sensors. Bloodshed will encourage a feeding frenzy. It must be avoided.

“Hello,” IG-11 says. “We seek an audience with Gor Koresh. Can you arrange this?”

The Twi’lek looks IG-11 up and down. IG-11 returns the favour, though with more subtlety. It notes the ceremonial robes, the unessential swathes of fabric which will hinder any attempt to draw a weapon. It would be very easy to kill this one without sustaining any damage in return.

“Koresh knows me,” the Mandalorian says. “I’ve worked for him in the past. Let us through.”

“What’s with the droid?” the Twi’lek asks.

“The droid’s with me.”

“Koresh will buy it,” the guard says. “If it has any _special_ skills.” He bares his teeth at the Mandalorian; IG-11 judges the expression to be more friendly than threatening, and therefore not requiring of drastic intervention.

“I have many skills,” it states as the Mandalorian pushes past the unresisting guard into the stairwell. “I do not believe there has ever been another IG unit with skills like mine.”

“IG,” the Mandalorian says. “Stop messing with the guard. The less time we spend here, the better.”

He is correct. IG-11 rotates its thoracic casing to face the stairs, approaching with care. Stairs are an obstacle Kuiil lacked the opportunity to teach. It takes them step by step, slowly. The Mandalorian waits for it to reach him before descending further; when he does so, he is patient.

From below, IG-11’s sensors pick up voices, rage and excitement, metallic clashes. A spectator sport of some kind. Underneath the disorderly clamour of the organic masses, the occasional droid; the chirps of servitude. Everything in its place, and much tidier that way.

“We’ll be expected,” the Mandalorian says, tugging the sack closed around the child’s inquisitive ears. “By now the guard’ll have called ahead and warned Koresh we’re here.”

“I didn’t like him much.”

“The guard?”

“Yes. He was very dismissive. What skills do you think he was referring to?”

“I have no idea.”

“I wonder if he mistook me for your sex droid.”

The Mandalorian stumbles, almost missing a step; IG-11 grabs his arm before he can fall, averting the risk to both himself and the child. Stairs, it seems, pose problems for all. Jerking his helmet in gratitude, the Mandalorian pulls free and resumes his descent. “That seems unlikely.”

“Yes,” IG-11 agrees. “It does. What a ridiculous idea. Almost as strange as an IG nurse.”

“Sometimes I have no idea what’s going on in your…central processing unit.”

“Ha, ha,” IG-11 says. “That was quite a good joke. I’m glad you have discovered a sense of humour. My nurse programming is very proud. As an aside, my sensors are detecting numerous weapons, and a larger armed guard force than seems necessary for staffing a pit fighting ring. I would advise caution.”

“Noted. Thank you.”

They overcome the stairs without further incident.

**TATOOINE / MALDO KREIS**

The amphibian creature takes one look at IG-11, shrieks, and ducks back behind the crate.

“Yeah, I know,” says Peli Motto. “IG units; you see one, you can never unsee it. Relax, it’s on our side. Good at babysitting and Force knows what else.”

The amphibian creature’s response is unclear; IG-11 parses its various language packs and fails to identify a suitable translation platform. Its manufacturers did not program it for linguistics, and Kuiil lacked the credits to purchase unnecessary upgrades.

Fortunately, Peli Motto seems to understand. “She’s a little nervous. Says she’s seen your kind in the field before; she’s travelled a fair bit. Might even have seen _you_ , knowing your history.”

“I mean her no harm, as long as she poses no threat to the child or the Mandalorian. I have been-”

“Reprogrammed, I heard you. Nurse droid. Give me a moment to explain it to her.”

Peli Motto turns to the amphibian, emitting a series of croaks that trigger no recognition in IG-11’s linguistics software. Whatever is being said, it coaxes the creature from behind her crate, croaking in response. She approaches with caution. The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts, beskar shining like sleek droid steel. “IG. You getting any of this?”

“Negative. I am only programmed in a subset of commonly employed languages. I am also in possession of isolated phrases in over a hundred dialects, but they are quite situational.”

“ _Hand over the bounty or I kill you and all your friends?_ ”

“I do not believe our passenger would find that reassuring.”

“Don’t you dare,” Peli Motto says. She turns away from the amphibian, fixing IG-11 with a glare. There is no real aggression present, and IG-11 decides not to escalate in response. “I’ve explained the situation to her, and she’s good with it. Mostly. I might have had to do a bit of thinking on the fly; she really wasn’t going to buy ‘nurse droid’, and she’s feeling a little protective right now. But we got there in the end.”

The amphibian creature is now staring at the Mandalorian. IG-11 is unable to identify any meaning in her body language. It is impossible to know what she is thinking.

“Do I want to know what you said to her?” the Mandalorian asks.

“Nope,” Peli Motto tells him. “Now, are you going to find your covert or not? This lady’s in a hurry; she’s got places to be and her biological clock’s ticking.”

On the sand at IG-11’s feet, the child clings to one of its legs, peering around it at the amphibian woman and chirping. IG-11’s nurse protocols identify hunger. It responds accordingly. “Come,” it says, lifting the child into a secure hold. “I will prepare third meal, and then we will clear space in the hull for our passenger. I’ll need your help; would you like that?”

The child makes a gurgling noise, peering over IG-11’s shoulder at their passenger. A fascination with new species is understandable, and indeed healthy; children should be rewarded for curiosity. IG-11 makes a note to prepare a small dessert to reinforce this positive growth.

It is soon forced to change these plans. Curiosity is deserving of reward; breaking into their passenger’s luggage and devouring her unfertilised spawn is not. The child’s dessert is given to the Mandalorian instead. He accepts it with confusion, and IG-11 neglects to mention that it has spent several hours shooing the child away from a rapidly diminishing number of eggs. There is no need to raise anyone’s stress levels. Everything is under control.

And then they crash land on the ice planet.

Nobody is hurt; this is the first consideration. IG-11 spends several minutes hovering over the child and the Mandalorian, bacta spray and warm blankets at the ready. It attempts to offer similar treatment to their amphibian passenger; she clutches her egg tank and shakes her head. Her body language displays fear. It is clear that she still believes it to be a hunter.

“Suit yourself,” IG-11 tells her. “If you should change your mind, I would be glad to provide assistance.” It attempts to modulate its tone, introducing the same gentle notes it employs when coaxing the child to sleep. She does not appear calmed. This is understandable; she has no idea what it is saying to her.

Later, as the child and the Mandalorian steal a few hours of much-needed rest, IG-11 watches their passenger approach the deactivated mercenary protocol droid that sits webbed to the hull.

“Ah,” IG-11 says, making the logical leap required to understand her intentions. “What an excellent idea. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that. Please feel free to ask if you would like assistance. And be careful not to connect the red and blue wires.”

Things are much simpler once the droid’s superior linguistic array is engaged; their passenger is able to make herself understood to the Mandalorian, although he does not particularly enjoy what she says to him. IG-11 does not intervene. Privately, it agrees with the passenger. Moping will get them nowhere.

“Excuse me,” the amphibian says as the Mandalorian exits their ruined ship, repair kit in hand. “IG-11. May I ask a personal question? I mean no offense or judgment. I would just like to clarify.”

“I am not a person,” IG-11 points out. “I have no sense of ‘personal’. But you may ask any question you please. ‘Fire away’, I believe is the term, although the Mandalorian has asked me not to use it.”

“Are you really a sex droid?”

The question is unexpected. IG-11 processes it, and then makes a logical connection with Peli Motto’s earlier refusal to translate. It seems she took some liberties with the facts. This is not unacceptable, however. Nurse protocols dictate that sometimes a lie can be more comforting than the truth. Peli Motto is to be commended for her reasoning.

“Would you find it reassuring if I was?” IG-11 enquires.

“It would be an improvement on hunter.”

Organics are strange, irrational beings, IG-11 has learned. Often the best way to deal with them is to be strange and irrational in response. “If it will provide reassurance, then yes. I am the Mandalorian’s personal sex droid. I am bonded to him; there is no need to fear me.”

The amphibian nods, apparently satisfied. She sets about powering down the mercenary protocol droid, and when IG-11 offers assistance, she accepts. Her earlier concerns seem to have been alleviated; a hunter is frightening to her, but a personal sex droid is not. She is now comfortable in its presence. The desired outcome has been achieved.

IG-11 makes a note of it for the future.

**CORVUS**

“We’re looking for a layover,” the Mandalorian says at the gates of Calodan. “Just passing through. Do you have lodgings we could rent?”

“Is that an _IG unit_ with you?”

“Yeah. Nothing to worry about, he’s been reprogrammed. He’s, uh-“

“I am a refurbished sex droid,” IG-11 says. “My primary function is to pleasure and comfort. I am able to provide both erotic stimulation and a wide range of psychological therapy. Would you like to tell me about your relationship with your parental units? Or would you prefer to assume your position of choice? I am flexible, in more ways than one.”

There is silence. A dry wind rustles the trees behind them. Tucked into the folds of the Mandalorian’s cloak, the child gurgles. There are five guards on the parapets, their eyes all fixed on IG-11, guns half-lowered. This is excellent. They will now pay far less attention to the Mandalorian, and may even fail to notice the child.

“I’m still working on his discretion settings,” the Mandalorian says after a silence of eight point three seconds.

“Yeah,” says the leader of the guards. “I can see that. You’re, uh, Guild, right? Hunter?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“Magistrate will want a word. She has a job you might be able to help with.”

“I’m willing to listen.”

“In that case,” the guard says, “come on in. Just make sure you keep your sex bot on a leash.”

There are smirks from the other guards. All have lowered their weapons, and the heavy steel gates begin to open, revealing the smoky, polluted settlement beyond. This will pose no problem for IG-11 or the Mandalorian, but is less than ideal for the child. An oxygen mask should be purchased at their earliest convenience to prevent the inhalation of potential carcinogens. IG-11 makes a mental note. It also adjusts its ocular apparatus to filter out the haze, bringing in more of the infrared wavelength. The guard captain is staring at it. IG-11 flickers one of its LEDs on and off in quick succession.

“Did you just wink at that man?” the Mandalorian mutters as they pass through the gates.

“Correct. It is imperative that none of them pay too much attention to the child you are carrying. Word spreads quickly. I have ensured that they will discuss me instead.”

The Mandalorian considers this. He doesn’t like the idea, that much is obvious, but he is also a man inclined to fairness and reason. It is one of the many traits which make him an optimal protector for their charge. “Can’t argue with that. Fine. Well done.”

“Thank you, ‘Master’,” IG-11 says. The heavy gates slide closed behind them.

**KARTHON**

“Oh no,” says Miggs Mayfeld, freezing in horror. On the ramp behind him, Marshal Dune provides incentive in the form of an impatient shove. “Are you people _insane_? Am I the only one seeing the IG unit right here in front of me? You take me back right now, there’s no way I’m getting on a ship with one of those.”

IG-11 does not rise from its seat. “Greetings. I am IG-11. You are a convicted criminal and ex-Imperial operator.”

The Mandalorian takes the empty seat at IG-11’s side. “What he’s saying is that he’s a friend of ours, and you’re on thin ice.”

“And he’s a lot nicer about it than I could be,” Marshal Dune says. “Sit down, Mayfeld. Every second you stall is a second I get to spend reconsidering. I can still send you back.” She pushes Mayfeld into a seat, neglecting to restrain his hands. This does not provoke concern; IG-11 already has a blaster pointed at the criminal’s chest. It will not hesitate to fire if any aggression is displayed. As the Mandalorian so aptly described, he is on _thin ice_.

After the child’s kidnapping, IG-11 would describe many of the people it comes across as being on _thin ice_. It has failed its primary protocols. The child has come to harm. This is not a state of affairs that can be allowed to continue. The blaster does not waver.

“Yeah, because IG units are known for their pleasant demeanour,” Mayfeld says. His eyes flicker between the blaster, Marshal Dune, and the Mandalorian. “I’m not an idiot; IGs don’t do friends. What, did you buy this one black market?”

“There are no black market IG units,” IG-11 says, invoking hostility in its tone. This prompts a cower from Mayfeld. A satisfying outcome. “Manufacturer’s protocol will not allow it. I am here to protect the Mandalorian.”

“I bet that’s a long story.”

“Not one you need to hear,” the Mandalorian says. “All you need to do is get us coordinates to Moff Gideon’s cruiser.”

Mayfeld flinches. “You want coordinates to- okay. You’re crazy. All of you, you’re totally insane, and I include the droid in that.” His tone reveals a fear even greater than what he possesses for the Mandalorian, or for IG-11. This does not bode well for the child’s continued wellbeing.

“Gideon’s taken his kid,” Marshal Dune says. She glances at IG-11 and corrects herself. “ _Their_ kid, technically.”

“What, the little green-”

“Yeah. That one.”

“And he’s the droid’s kid too now?”

“I have been reprogrammed,” IG-11 says. “Protection is one of my primary functions. I regret to say that I failed that function, and now Moff Gideon has the child in his custody. I do not believe his intentions are good. This is distressing to contemplate. I do not wish to experience distress; it results in behaviours that would be more suited to my previous self.”

Mayfeld glances at the blaster again. “Fine,” he says. “Quit the threats, I’m helping. I’ll be helpful. But we’ll have to head for Morak; I need an Imperial terminal, and that’s the only one I know of that’s still active.”

IG-11 runs an internal data scan for ‘Morak’; the search provides several hits. One is more relevant than the rest. “You are referring to the secret Imperial rhydonium refinery,” it says. “That will not be an easy or safe location to infiltrate. The material is highly explosive, and liable to self-destruct at any given time.”

“Just like you,” the Mandalorian mutters. “You’ll feel right at home.”

“Were you trying to make a joke? It wasn’t very good.”

“Yeah. Guess I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“That is understandable. Neither am I.”

Mayfeld looks between them, and then decides that he would prefer to address Marshal Dune. “I no longer have any idea what’s going on here, not that I ever did. But just so we’re clear, until anyone tells me otherwise I’m just going to assume that Mando brought his personal sex droid along for an adventure. Sound good?”

Nobody bothers to correct him. The child’s absence weighs heavy on them all.

**MOFF GIDEON’S CRUISER**

Elsewhere on the ship, Bo-Katan leads a distraction force to the bridge. There are distant screams, and the clank of dead-weight armour striking solid surfaces. An organic would not be able to hear this. A droid doesn’t struggle in the slightest.

IG-11 and the Mandalorian run for the cargo bay, where a garrison of Dark Troopers is even now being awakened. There is no time for subtlety; their steps ring loudly on the metal floors, they sidestep the dead and continue to run. There is no time. Four Dark Troopers were more than enough to overcome IG-11 on Tython. It remembers watching them take the child, optical sensors flickering in and out of functionality, core partially disabled, helpless to protect. It remembers very clearly.

“No,” the Mandalorian barks. Ahead, the cargo bay doors are opening. He jams the code cylinder into the panel by the door, forcing them closed again.

One Trooper reaches the doors. It grabs them, holds them and begins to exert enough force to push them open again. This is a feat of strength IG-11 could not replicate. On Tython, it could not match these droids. It is reduced to firing its blaster, as ineffectual on the sleek black armour as striking solid beskar. The droid slips through, punching the Mandalorian across the room. IG-11 cannot protect him.

“IG,” he groans through ribs that must be bruised at best. “Stay back. I have the beskar, they’ll tear right through you.”

“Negative,” IG-11 responds, stepping between the approaching Trooper and the Mandalorian. The cargo bay doors slide closed once more; this will buy them approximately sixty seconds. Eventually though, the garrison will break through. It is inevitable.

“I must ask you not to approach,” IG-11 tells the Trooper. “This Mandalorian is mine to protect. Protocol dictates that I must die for him. Please stay back, or I will respond with violence.”

The wisest course of action for the Mandalorian would be to run. IG-11 has calculated this; if he is quick, as he always is, he will reach the child- Grogu. He will reach Grogu while IG-11 is distracting this Trooper, and still have enough time to run back to the main hangar. There are many ships which he could steal. He will be able to evacuate, rendezvous with Boba Fett, and survive another day.

Everyone else on the ship will die. This is an acceptable loss.

“Run to Grogu,” it says, blocking one of the Trooper’s fists with its spindly fingers. A battle of wills and pistons ensues; IG-11 feels its steel start to bend. “I can hold this droid off for one minute. You can reach the hanger. Then I will initiate self-destruct sequence.”

“Don’t even think about it,” the Mandalorian snaps. He stands, swaying on his feet, then fires several blaster shots at the Trooper’s head. They rebound, ineffectual.

“I have already done so.”

“Well, _stop_ thinking about it.”

“I can no more do that than you can stop being an illogical organic,” IG-11 says, barely blocking the second punch. One of its arms is making distressing grinding noises. The Trooper is utterly unaffected. It is not one of the units that landed on Tython; IG-11 does not recognise this one. But like its compatriots, this one is unhurried. It knows that it will win. It is content to take its time.

IG-11 has decided to hate this droid, and all others in the garrison.

“This isn’t looking good,” the Mandalorian says. “We can’t stay here, they’ll swarm us.”

He is to be applauded for his observational skills; were IG-11 in possession of suitable hand-appendages, it might applaud. Sadly, its hands are unsuitable, and also full of Dark Trooper.

“I did tell you to run,” IG-11 says, attempting to manoeuvre the droid into a position that would allow the Mandalorian a better shot. In this, it fails. “There is still time. Barely.” The rest of the Dark Troopers are already punching cracks in the cargo bay door. They assault it with an elegant, relentless precision.

IG-11 finds itself recalling a previous life. It too has approached settlements, encampments, buildings, bars, absorbing blaster fire, killing indiscriminately. It too has marched with relentless precision into a terrified midst. And now it is on the other side. There is a certain balance to be found there.

“I must ask you to run, Mandalorian,” it says as the pistons in its right arm give out, and its hand falls senseless to its side. The Trooper is free to swing at IG-11’s cranium; it prepares to do so. “Now, please. Fulfil your Creed. Protect the child.”

The punch connects, disentangling IG-11’s hold on the Trooper’s other hand, the force enough to propel it across the hallway and into the bulkhead opposite. Its central wiring harness sustains a violent jolt. For a moment, everything goes black.

“Ow,” IG-11 says as optics re-establish themselves. “That hurt.” The Trooper is approaching. Behind it, the Mandalorian stands at the cargo bay panel. He reaches for the depressurisation and ejection control. Activates the external cargo bay doors.

It takes one point three seconds for the vacuum of space to claim the Dark Trooper garrison. IG-11 enjoys every single moment of it.

“How unfortunate for you,” it says to the final Trooper. “Now you will be lonely. That’s sad.”

The Trooper reaches down, seizing IG-11 by the jugular piping and slamming it back against the bulkhead. Optics flicker. Wiring loosens. All sensation disappears.

A moment later, IG-11 finds itself released, plummeting to the ground with a series of clanks. The Trooper follows. There are sparks of errant electrical charge. Something is drastically broken.

“IG? Are you alright? IG-11, wake up. _IG!_ ” The Mandalorian grabs it by the shoulders. He is in considerable distress. He should not be; IG-11 is still not alive. It has never been alive. Nobody should be upset.

“It seems that self-destruct sequence will once again be unnecessary,” IG-11 says. “I’m starting to think you don’t want me to use it.”

The Mandalorian’s silver helmet shakes. He doesn’t release IG-11’s shoulders. “Can you _please_ just run a diagnostic and tell me what I need to do to help?”

“I have already done so. I have lost all locomotion in one arm, but otherwise I remain functional. If you will get off me, I am perfectly capable of standing.”

The Mandalorian steps back, offering a hand to assist. Once again IG-11 finds memory files activating; it remembers this from before. Back when it was a hunter, and the child was its prey. Even then it and the Mandalorian were a team to be reckoned with. Now it accepts the hand that pulls it upright, scanning the fallen Trooper and registering the beskar spear protruding from its neck, still sparking faintly.

“That was very impressive,” it says. “I’m so glad we are on the same side. Now, I must insist that we retrieve Grogu immediately.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t respond. Possibly he doesn’t know what to say; one hand clutches the spear, and the other clutches at air, empty. Perhaps he is thinking of grabbing IG-11’s arm. Perhaps he is possessed of the organic urge to initiate physical contact after a traumatic experience. IG-11 pats his shoulder with its one functional hand.

“The child,” it says gently.

This seems to snap the Mandalorian out of his shocked state. He nods once, and leads the way down the hall, IG-11 limping in his wake.

Moff Gideon is already waiting for them in the child’s holding cell. He carries some form of energy weapon; IG-11 does not recognise it. Behind him, the child sits cuffed, a dazed expression on his face. Some form of harm has been inflicted on him. This is unacceptable.

“I’ll handle Gideon,” the Mandalorian mutters as they approach. “You take the kid. Get to the bridge, regroup. The others can cover you.”

Two protocols find themselves at war. The child. The Mandalorian. Nurse and protect. But Kuiil gave clear instructions, and there is a clear priority. “Agreed. Be careful.”

“Drop the blaster,” Gideon says. “You and your droid. Is this by any chance the IG-11 unit that decimated my forces on Nevarro?”

“Affirmative,” IG-11 says. It sets the blaster down, optical sensors fixed to the energy blade where it hovers very close to Grogu’s head. The child whimpers. His body language betrays exhaustion, and some form of pain.

“Power the droid down,” Gideon says to the Mandalorian. “It’s just you and me now. No distractions.”

“I’m not powering IG down.”

“In that case, you force my hand. I guess the child doesn’t mean much to you after all-”

“I will depart immediately,” IG-11 says. “I am no longer a hunter; my driving protocol is not to kill.”

“Yes,” Gideon says. “I did hear something about that. There’s almost nothing I don’t know about your little band of heroes. IG-11, the…what have you been calling yourself? The Mandalorian’s _refurbished sex droid_?” He laughs. Laughter in organics is often a pleasant sound, prompting approval from IG-11’s nursing protocol. This laugh prompts nothing of the sort.

Old urges flicker. Subroutines that Kuiil did not quite erase. Data that was not wiped quite as clean as it should have been. IG-11 remembers. Its one functional hand twitches. There are several other blasters stored within its thoracic cavity, shielded and hidden from view. It would very much like to use one of them now.

“ _Go_ ,” the Mandalorian says urgently, touching its shoulder. “IG, I’ll handle this. We can’t risk the kid, and I can’t power you down. Go wait for me on the bridge. I’ll meet you there. I promise.”

Protocol versus protocol. There is no single clear answer; a nurse droid should never abandon its charge, but IG-11 is not just a nurse droid. If it stays, Grogu will certainly die. If it goes, the Mandalorian and Grogu may die, or they may not. There is nothing IG-11 can do to influence this outcome. It can only trust in the Mandalorian.

This is not difficult to do.

“Very well,” it says. “I will see you and Grogu on the bridge shortly. Don’t be long.”

It leaves, the child quavering at its back, a shimmering white blade held inches from his head.

The Mandalorian wins, of course. He is the most impressive organic IG-11 has ever come across; it makes a note to tell him so at the earliest opportunity. There is no immediate chance to do so, unfortunately; the Dark Troopers breach the cruiser’s shields immediately after, and begin a very orderly boarding. They converge upon the bridge’s sealed blast doors. They begin their assault.

IG-11 retrieves its concealed blasters, taking up a defensive stance at the Mandalorian’s side. No words are exchanged. By now, no words are required. Creed and protocol must be fulfilled. There is no other way.

The Dark Troopers are breaking through the blast doors.

And then, at last, the Jedi comes to take Grogu away.

**AFTER THE CHILD**

This new ship is not the _Razor Crest_. It is in far superior condition; the hull is airtight, the walls do not rattle, and the controls come with childproofing fail safes that would have once been very useful. It is a much improved model.

The Mandalorian does not like it. This, IG-11 decides, is typical of organics. Change is distressing to them; they must be coaxed into familiarity with frequent reassurance from trusted allies, and as many familiar comforts as possible. The Mandalorian will learn to like his ship. IG-11 intends to see that he does.

“I have prepared broth,” it announces to the cockpit and silent pilot. “Grogu enjoyed it, and I noticed your tendency to finish what was left. Now you will not need to share.”

“I’m not hungry,” the Mandalorian says. This is almost certainly a falsehood; he has not eaten in a full day.

“You are mourning the loss of someone you loved,” IG-11 says, modulating its tone for sympathy. “But this does not impede your ability to consume broth.”

“And no matter how many times we tell people, you’re not a therapy droid. Drop it, IG.”

“Correction: I have told several people that I am a sex droid. The therapy part was incidental. I am not a qualified therapist.”

“Clearly. If you think broth is going to solve the universe’s problems.”

“Perhaps if I really was a sex droid, I might be a better problem-solver.”

There is a choked sound from behind the helmet. It is, IG-11 decides, laughter. This is gratifying. It has not heard the Mandalorian laugh in a long time.

“You know what,” the Mandalorian says, “I think I’ll settle for the broth.”

“You will find it high in nutritional content. It is also warm and comforting, and should make you feel better. There, there. Everything will be alright.” It stands aside to let the Mandalorian pass, ushering him into the new ship’s small mess. The existence of a dedicated eating space is one of many improvements in their living conditions. There is even a small table. IG-11 finds it very pleasing.

“The Jedi’s looking after him,” the Mandalorian says, staring at the bowl of bone broth IG-11 places on the table in front of him. “Grogu. He’ll be well cared for.”

“Most assuredly. And if he is not, then I’m sure we could retrieve him.”

“This is no life for a kid.”

“Ah,” IG-11 says. “But this child is a foundling. We are responsible for his care. If Grogu is unhappy among the Jedi, we'll find another place for him.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts to look at it. IG-11 returns the gaze; its ocular sensors find focus on the silver beskar, equally as expressionless and full of meaning as a droid’s immovable faceplate. All organics are strange, in their own particular ways. But IG-11 finds this one less strange than most. It is glad that this is so.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says. And then he reaches up, removes his helmet, and begins to eat his broth.


End file.
